Gestures
by Twinings
Summary: Judge a man not by the clothes he wears, but by the clothes he buys for you.  [CAT]


_Disclaimer: I'm afraid I don't own the Scarecrow. This fic references "Neutral Ground" from _The Further Adventures of Batman._ Read this, read that, knock yourself out._

_And feel free to view the CATverse timeline at www. freewebs. com/ catverse . This is early February, not long after a certain miraculous resurrection._

* * *

In a rare reversal of their normal roles, the Scarecrow was dragging his three minions to an appointment they didn't want to keep on this fine January afternoon, a day more suited to staying in with hot chocolate than to going out for any reason. They might have been more interested if Jonathan had taken the time to explain himself. But all he had said was, "We're going out. Don't bring your masks."

They couldn't reconcile Secretive Squishy with anything that didn't end with, "into a vat of acid."

At least, that was what Al and Techie thought. The Captain, like a kitten due to be spayed, heard "car" and assumed "vet."

_She_ was the one who had to be picked up and carried outside, insisting, "I don't need to go to the doctor!" all the way.

"I can't keep doing this, you big baby," Al grumbled as she dumped her commanding officer in front of the Frohike. "You're killing my back."

Jonathan smirked.

"We're not going to the doctor."

Al turned on him.

"What—you—you couldn't have said that _before_?" He just shooed her to the backseat.

"I'll drive."

Al and Techie shared a worried glance.

"Vat of acid?"

"Man-eating piranhas."

The Captain just hummed a merry little tune.

Looking equal parts self-satisfied and uncomfortable, Jonathan drove them out to a part of town that had that undeniable aura of "the wrong side of the tracks." He parked the van in a grimy alley that was clearly a mugging just waiting to happen. The girls objected. They were overruled.

"No one is going to bother us here. Go around to the front. We only have an hour."

Grumbling, they followed his orders, surrounding him like a herd of buffalo protecting their young without even realizing what they were doing.

"What is this place?" the Captain asked. There was no sign over the door, no indication whatsoever of what the shop sold. Only the sight of an ancient cash register, barely visible through one filthy window, proved that the place sold anything at all.

"Beige," Techie said distastefully.

"Will you stop commenting on the decorating scheme of the electronics and go inside?" They all hesitated, reluctant to touch the rusty door handle.

"I've never had a tetanus shot," said the Captain.

"We can't be seen hanging around out here." He opened the door himself and ushered them inside.

"You're late," came a voice from behind the counter.

"It won't happen again," Jonathan said as he closed the door behind them. "The girls are understandably reluctant to meet new people in this city."

There was a loud _harrumph_ from behind the counter, and a little old man, the proprietor of the shop, stepped out into the light where they could see him, but, more importantly, where he could see them.

"So—you are the infamous three." He spoke with a thick German accent that Al was cautiously prepared to find charming—although she might change her mind if he didn't stop scrutinizing her bum. "I have seen your costumes. You made them yourselves?"

"Yeah, all but the masks."

With a dismissive grunt, he moved on to inspect Techie.

"I think you have also worked in Metropolis, yes? The ones they called Q? Those costumes were better."

"I built those," Techie said with pardonable pride. "We all worked on the designs, but I put them togeth—hey!" She slapped his hand away from a delicate area.

"What? You want me to measure, I have to touch."

"Measure? Measure for _what_?" She glared at Jonathan, who only smirked back.

"What's going on here?" Al demanded.

"What do you think is going on? You're getting new costumes. The ones you made yourselves before are falling apart, and frankly, they're an embarrassment. From now on, if you insist on acting as villains, you come to Kittlemeier."

The Captain giggled.

"You're buying us new clothes? Do you realize that's how my grandmother shows affection?"

"It has nothing to do with _that_," he said stiffly. "You have a job. This is part of it. So stop _gawking_ at me and let Mr. Kittlemeier do _his_ job, will you?"

"Yes, boss."

The old man led them into the back room one by one, explaining the rules as he took their measurements and asked their input on the designs of their new costumes, although their fearless leader had already laid down some guidelines from which he would not deviate.

They were to come alone, after this initial visit. Lateness would not be tolerated. There would be no contact between them and the other customers.

They gathered this wasn't the sort of thing people talked about.

He would make them whatever they needed. Costumes, armor, weapons, anything they asked for, as long as they paid. There would be no haggling.

"You girls come back in a week. Thursday, five o'clock." He motioned Jonathan over to the counter. Money changed hands (a sizeable amount) while the girls watched, incredulous.

Jonathan turned to face them, and was dismayed by their earnest smiles.

"What?"

They moved in to hug him. He executed an evasive maneuver.

"Save your gratitude. This will be _your_ responsibility from now on."

"But you brought us here," said Al. He glared at her.

"Try not to read too much into it."

They thanked Mr. Kittlemeier and each shook his hand. He smiled at them.

"Pleasure doing business with you girls. Welcome to the 'Rogue's Gallery.'"

"Oh, but we're not new at this," Al protested. "We've been at it for a couple of years." Kittlemeier shook his head.

"Before, you're common criminals in costume. Nothing special. When you come to Kittlemeier's, you know you've made it. You're real villains now."

They all grinned at Jonathan, but managed to wait until they were outside to announce, "You love us!"

"I do not," he insisted. "I'm willing to tolerate your presence. It's not the same thing."

"We love you, too."

"I just want you well-armed," he protested.

"And the armor in the new costumes?"

"It won't be particularly effective."

"But how do you justify it as a selfish act?" the Captain wheedled.

"I don't want you to…" Realizing he'd almost been manipulated into actually…revealing _feelings_, he turned away, hoping they would follow his lead and get in the van.

"What?" was the chorus as they clustered around him.

"_Die_," the Scarecrow grumbled. Three jaws dropped; both Techie's and the Captain's jaws cracked loudly as their mouths fell open. "I don't want you to die, all right? You're more use to me alive. _Please_ don't hug me for it."

"But, _Squishykins_," Al sang as she cuddled up to him. "Don't you know actions speak louder than words?"

It was then that he decided for the first time that it really _was_ too late to gas them and leave them for dead.


End file.
